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by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Existential Angst, Grief/Mourning, He just wants it to stop, Introspection, Sans (Undertale) Needs a Hug, Sans (Undertale) Remembers Resets, Suicidal Ideation, Time Loop, Undertale Genocide Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: When had he realized it wasn’t worth it?Not Papyrus himself. Pap was always worth it. He was worth every drop of sweat and blood, every speck of dust. But grief was too much work, and Sans could only put in so much overtime.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 120





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**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there are hundreds of other stories like this but I'm throwing mine into the ring just for the pain.

At what point had he stopped trying?

The first reset was so long ago that it could have been a dream. The kid had given them all a glimpse of happiness. The sun had seeped into his bones with a warmth that he had never felt before, soft and full, and he thought ever so briefly that he could never get enough of it.

The kid wouldn’t give him the chance. When he startled awake, tangled up in his ball of blankets, his first thought was that, vivid as it may be, all of it _was_ a dream…No human who had gained that much love and shown that much mercy would truly lead them toward freedom and then tear it all away, would they? A child wouldn’t do that. A _friend_ wouldn’t do that.

How could he reconcile that with the dust of his little brother as it painted the glittering snow gray?

He couldn’t remember how he’d reacted the first time they took Pap—or the second, or the third, or the 560th. Was it in the second run that he had screamed and cried himself to sleep in the snowdrift? That sounded like something he might do, back when anything still came as a shock.

Surely it was the…seventh that he had clawed at the ground, gathering dust and snow, snow and dust in his hands, until he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

Had it been the twentieth that he grabbed Papyrus’ arm before he could make it out for work? “Let’s hang around here today. Practice, uh…our defense of the home base. Lock the doors.”

Could it have been the…eighty-second that he'd broken and explained everything to him? The one where he saw that precious innocence drain from Pap’s eyes?

It must have been the 115th that he put a wall of bones in his brother’s path and told him that he wasn’t _asking_ him to stay.

Which run was it that Papyrus had whispered, “Brother, you’re scaring me”? That one had hurt more than most, but in the end his desperate betrayal didn’t even matter. It was equally worthless the next seventeen times he tried it.

Which run was it that they had fought the human together? That they had “won”? Papyrus had been ecstatic. Giddy, he had swept Sans up into his arms in celebration. All Sans could see in his peripheral vision was a flash of gold and then Pap was turning to dust around him. For a moment Sans choked as pieces of his brother clogged his eye sockets and his smiling teeth, but the human was polite enough to kill him before he could cough.

When had he realized it wasn’t worth it?

Not Papyrus himself. Pap was always worth it. He was a treasure worth every drop of sweat and blood, every speck of dust.

But… _it_. None of _it_ was worth his endless stretch of time or his critically low energy. The crying, the screaming, the spreading of dust, the condolences, the pity…the whole grieving thing. The pain was always there, further than the distant sun’s warmth could ever reach, like a lump of gray, stained snow frozen into his lower ribcage—but why bother making a show of it? Grief was too much work, and he could only put in so much overtime.

Besides, who was left to share in his personal ache? Others were too busy mourning their own or scrambling to hoard away the loved ones they still had. If Sans couldn’t be lazy and despicable and pawn some of his burden off on anyone else, why carry it at all? It was just so heavy.

In his soul he knew with sickening clarity: If their roles were reversed, Papyrus would grieve for him every time, properly, to the very end. No matter what it took, he would muster tears to shed, track down Sans’ dust across the terrain, probably even seek out a meager group of survivors for some kind of memorial. No doubt he would give a tear-jerking, heartfelt speech that made the attendees glad that dear, departed Comic Sans was once in their lives.

Papyrus always had something to say. Sans ran out of eulogies several hundred loops ago. Pretty words were hollow and exhausting. Easier to just let the pain come and go as it may, festering and eventually numbing in silence. 

It was easier to watch and wait as his brother’s head crumbled off his shoulders. It was easier to watch and wait as the human razed their way through people Sans should…probably still care about. It was easier to watch and wait, counting down the seconds until his break was over and he had to take a shortcut to the corridor.

He dozed sometimes as he idled there. Every so often he dreamt that they’d already reset, he was back at his post and Pap was storming over to berate him for his laziness. But the little freak’s soft, patient, predatory footsteps were nothing like his brother’s.

The surface wasn’t worth it anymore. Freedom wasn’t freedom, life wasn't life. Sans had his part to play, his lines laid out for him.

 _If we’re really friends, you won’t come back_.

Anyone he ever cared about was dead, hundreds of times over, and sometimes, selfishly, he didn’t want them back either. He didn’t want that woman beyond the door back, forced to laugh at all of the same jokes, needling him for all the same promises. He didn’t want Papyrus back here, hoping all of his hopes and dreaming all of his dreams, loving and sweet and endlessly too _good_ for them. He didn't want him being _puppeted_ by a sick child in a sick game.

At this point he just wanted The End, no matter what it was.

If the kid was merciful enough not to come back ~~though they always did~~ , what would he do? Would he try out grieving again? It still didn’t sound appealing. Maybe he could just sit in that empty hallway in that empty world and waste away to the distant birdsong. He could just…let the dead lie.

Yeah. That sounded like a beautiful day.

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine has given me nothing but time to remember how much I love Undertale angst. I'm sorry ;w;


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